


Personal Growth in the Face of Forced Socialization

by deliriumbubbles



Series: Wicked Games [1]
Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Dick Jokes, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliriumbubbles/pseuds/deliriumbubbles
Summary: As Rusty tries to avoid socializing at Sergeant Hatred’s party, Brock hatches a different plan. Aka, how Brock got Rusty naked into a robe before pushing him out to soak in a hot tub with two weirdos. S3 Ep 4, “Home is Where the Hate Is.”Discussion of dick size, shrinkage and more than a bit of irony at the end.





	Personal Growth in the Face of Forced Socialization

As far as Rusty was concerned, Brock had made him come to this blasted party. He’d forced him socialize with a group of dangerous villains, _by himself_. At the very least, he could take a break from watching some documentary on weaponry to take advantage of some free and Guild-sanctioned babysitting.

“That giant weapon of yours go off yet?” Rusty said as he cracked open the door, sliding his lips to the side in a naughty smirk.

“A coupla times.” Brock nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “It was somethin’.”

Rusty chuckled and came to sit by him on the sofa. “In my experience, _always_.”

“You done flirtin’ with Dr. Throat Cancer out there?”

Rusty swatted Brock’s arm. “You know I’m just riling her up. She deserves it, after what she put me and the boys through. You know Dean still has nightmares of me as an insect?”

“Yeah.” Brock stretched his arms over his head and draped one discreetly over the back of the sofa.

Rusty let his head fall back and closed his eyes as he felt the warmth of Brock’s arm.

“Ya gotta get back out there.”

“I don’t see why. There’s absolutely no function to all this rigmarole.” Rusty waved a hand in the air.

Brock heaved a sigh. “You know how the Guild is. They want their veneer of civility, of everything on the up and up. It’s politics, Doc. It shows you’re ready to play nice when everyone’s guard is down.”

“ _I’m_ ready to play nice? Our new lovely hostess shot me in the _gut_ at close range today! After, by the way, wasting hours of our time talking about how _pleasant_ everything can be and how much he _loves_ your gardening skills!” Rusty crossed his arms. “And don’t tell me they were ‘just rubber bullets.’ I lost a pint and a half.”

“He’s _incompetent_ , Doc. Doesn’t know how nonlethals work. I talked to him at the start of the evening. Gave him a few references on how to use ‘em right.” Brock’s brows tented just slightly, and he turned to Rusty and reached over to his side. “How’re the stitches holding up?”

“I used the autografter. ‘Minor wound,’ and all,” Rusty grumbled.

Brock made a noise deep in his throat. “You shouldn’t use that thing so much.”

“I’m not about to bleed through my outfit at the big party like some teenage girl.”

Brock’s hand touched Rusty’s side, and Rusty stared forward as his man felt over the area of his wound. It still hurt, but the surface area had mended and he wouldn’t have to spend weeks checking his stitches every time someone or some _thing_ threw him through a wall.

“If you weren’t feelin’ up to coming, you had a pretty good excuse,” Brock muttered.

“You weren’t so interested in my crybaby excuses a few hours ago.”

Brock grunted and slipped his hand under Rusty’s suit jacket. Heat rushed to Rusty’s cheeks. Brock rarely, if ever, touched him in public other than to block him from danger or carry him to safety. He could feel those strong, calloused fingers through the thin blue cotton of his shirt, and an unbidden gasp escaped his lips.

Brock’s fingers stilled. “Hurt?”

“Just sensitive.” Rusty shrugged.

“Always the tough little dude.” His hand moved lower, to Rusty’s hip, and Brock caught Rusty’s eyes.

“Is this part of the play? Fooling around on the nemesis’s couch?” Rusty arched a brow. “I’ll admit that would be a benefit to this ridiculous arrangement.”

Brock’s brows knit together as he leaned over Rusty. His hand slipped down under Rusty’s belt and around to his back. His breath came hot and oppressive against the sliver of Rusty’s neck that remained exposed above his turtleneck. Then, his fingers pressed deeply into the small of his back as Brock’s expression grew intense, almost _fierce_. Rusty wanted to say something, question the small moves of those strong fingers, but the words caught in his throat at the look on Brock’s face. Like he was disarming a _bomb_ , rather than feeling up his employer.

All at once the something seemed to give in Brock’s chest, and he let out a long breath, closing his eyes as his forehead lightly touched Rusty’s.

“Brock?”

“Not here.” Brock rose and left the room.

The absence of Brock’s bulk over him was palpable. Rusty was following him before he could think what Brock might have in mind. Public shenanigans had never been part of it. Not even lingering touches. Not on Brock’s part, anyway. He was unfailingly professional in public, and for the most part, Rusty was grateful. He needed Brock stable more than he needed… whatever it was they might have in their spare moments alone.

Well. Usually. The rest of the time, he could swallow it. Like every other bitter pill in his life.

Brock’s long strides took them to a guest bedroom, and within a few seconds Rusty was inside the locked room with Brock’s mammoth but nimble hands relieving him of his snappy blue suit, and his soft blue turtleneck, and his crisp white underwear.

“God, Brock, what are you doing?”

Stubble brushed against Rusty’s cheek. A thick, half-hard bulge against his leg. The musky scent that Rusty had become intimately familiar with over all these years filled his senses.

It was enough. Warmth pooling between his legs, Rusty panted as he started to grow hard. And quite thick, and at least five inches longer. But when he moved to rub against Brock in return, the huge man pulled away, causing Rusty to stumble.

Brock reached into the closet and tossed a robe with Sergeant Hatred’s logo on it at Rusty, who caught it and stared at it as though it were some kind of alien device.

“What the _hell_ , Brock?”

“Put it on,” Brock ordered. “The old guy’s gonna be out in his hot tub by now.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m not going to marinate with that weirdo!”

“Yeah, you are.” Brock returned to his side, slipped the robe over his shoulders, and pulled Rusty close as he tied it shut.

“ _No_ , I’m not! Why the hell did you even start this? To get me into a fucking robe?” Rusty resisted a little as Brock took him by the arm and guided him, roughly, down the hallway. “You want me lounging naked with our enemies? Is this some sick fantasy of yours?”

His erection wobbled uncomfortably in front of him, and Rusty felt his face growing hot enough to match his beard.

“Nope. You’re gonna walk out there. You’re gonna take your robe off-“ Brock stopped in front of the glass doors leading to the patio. “-And you’re gonna flash that seven inch boner of yours at that shriveled old dude and that shriveled asshole who have been soaking and shrinking in the water for like twenty minutes—“

Rusty turned his head to see that the Monarch and Sergeant Hatred were both in the hot tub.

“—And they’re gonna get a good look at what Thaddeus Venture’s working with.” Brock leaned over close to Rusty’s face and whispered in a husky voice: “And that’s what this fucking idiotic parties are for. Game playing and _dick measuring_.”

Rusty let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

“So go out there,” Brock continued in a tone both aggressive and gleeful, “Wave _that_ around for them, and when we get home, you can tell me all about it while I finally let you _come your brains out_.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, that’s naughty.” Rusty glanced down at Brock’s pants to see how uncomfortably hard Brock was. Somehow, that only increased the tight sense of urgency that he couldn’t relieve right now.

He and Brock never kissed, but if they did, Rusty would want to grab his face right now and suck that lower lip of his like juicy peach.

Well, he could suck other things later. Business first.

“Plus, the hot soak will be good for your injuries,” Brock added in a gentler, almost apologetic tone.

Rusty rolled his eyes. God, did he _have_ to add that? He’d have to show Brock later that he was perfectly fine. This man. He was such a damn worrywart.

Rusty opened the patio door. “Alright _fine_! I’ll take a soak.”

Brock let go of him, reluctance in his eyes but not in his posture, and walked away quickly. Quickly enough that Rusty surmised that he regretted a bit letting Rusty know that he was worried.

Drawing in a deep breath and filling his chest with all the lustful words and glances Brock had given him, Rusty sauntered over to the hot tub.

“My _man_ is insisting I spend some get-to-know you time with my antagonists.” He gave a bit of a sigh. “Not sure _why_.”

When he dropped his robe and the two men in the tub backed away speechlessly, Rusty’s confidence swelled. He couldn’t wait to get home and send the boys off to bed.

“I know, it’s impressive,” Rusty crowed as he sunk into the hot water. “It looks like Rusty’s inherited _more_ than his father’s startling intellect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Brock may have exaggerated certain numbers... for effect.


End file.
